Shatter the Night

by Emily Littlejohn

  The man arched his back, kicked at the table, but Ramirez’s grip was sure.

  And she didn’t appear ready to let go anytime soon.

  As the man’s face turned red and he gargled, the two other truckers slowly lifted their hands from the table and raised them up to shoulder height.

  The bar had fallen silent. No one in the room moved.

  “Liv.” I said it quietly, my voice barely above a whisper. “Liv, he can’t breathe.”

  She looked over at me and smiled. “That’s the whole point. This prick here needs to learn to keep his hands to himself.

  “Got that? Keep your hands to yourself,” she hissed into the man’s ear. Then she released him and he sagged forward, his hat falling to the ground, his hair hanging in limp strings.

  “Gonna … kill … you,” the trucker managed to gasp out.

  I yanked my handcuffs from the back of my pants and pulled the man’s hands behind his back. As I slapped the cuffs on, I said, “You damn idiot. You should have kept your mouth shut. I’m placing you under arrest for harassment. Lucky for you, it’s Friday night. You’ll have a nice long weekend to think about your behavior before you appear in front of Judge Dumont on Monday morning.”

  At my side, Liv gave the men a triumphant grin. I turned to her and said in a low voice, “Put that knife away. Are you crazy? You want to end up in the cell next to him for assault with a deadly weapon? You’re reckless, Ramirez. Reckless and shortsighted.”

  The grin fell from Liv’s face and she quickly snapped the knife shut. It disappeared into her purse and she stepped back, looked down at the ground. After a moment, one of the man’s buddies stood up, an angry look on his face.

  Finn pointed at him and said, “Sit down and shut up.”

  The trucker did as he was instructed; then he raised his hand and waited patiently until Finn exhaled and asked, “What?”

  “We’re due in Omaha tomorrow morning, the three of us and our rigs. We’re not going to make our payload if you throw Ronnie in jail. Can’t you give us a break? He didn’t hardly do anything. It was just a piece of ass.”

  Rage coursed through me and I started to respond when Ramirez put a hand on my shoulder and whispered, “Let me.”

  She turned to the table and spoke in a voice loud enough for everyone in the bar to hear. “How would you enjoy having your privates squeezed by some stranger? Or walking to your car late at night, always on alert for footsteps behind you? How about scanning a crowd as you enter any space, any room, making sure you feel comfortable with the folks in the room before taking another step forward? Pigs like you have made our lives hell for centuries. You have no idea what it’s like to be a woman. You have mothers? Sisters? Wives? I feel sorry for them. You should be ashamed of yourselves. Oh, and one more thing. I served this country for six years in Iraq. This piece of ass risked her life for the freedoms you enjoy, to drive a truck across the country and sit in a nice bar. You three are pathetic.”

  The entire bar erupted in cheering, with the young women in the crowd adding whoops and hollers. As we carted Ronnie out of the bar, his two buddies threw down a couple of bills and hustled outside through a side door, their faces beet red. We stood by Finn’s car and called in a uniformed officer on patrol to come by and pick up Ronnie. Though I hadn’t had anything to drink, it was better if an on-duty cop took him in for booking and processing.

  The trucker stared at us with baleful eyes, his cheeks still florid. After a moment, he muttered something under his breath.

  I took a step closer. “What was that? I didn’t quite hear you.”

  Ronnie spit in Ramirez’s direction, then stared at the ground. “I said, we don’t need her kind here.”

  “You’re not even from here, you jerk.” Finn calmly scratched at the back of his neck, staring down at Ronnie. “If you were, we’d have met by now. I know all the local trash.”

  “Figures.” Ronnie spit again. This time, his aim was off and a wad dropped down onto his dirty bandanna. I didn’t even want to think about how disgusting the skin on his neck must have been. “Well, we don’t need her kind where I’m from, either.”

  Ramirez stepped forward. She pulled the knife from her purse and began to flick it open and shut, open and shut, in her left hand. “Oh yeah? What kind would that be? Hispanic? Soldier? Woman?”

  Ronnie finally looked up and said with a sneer, “Lesbian.”

  “In your dreams, pal.” Ramirez moved away, already bored. She slid into her truck and sat there, gazing out at the night sky through her window.

  After what felt like long minutes, two officers arrived and took Ronnie into custody. Finn and I walked to Ramirez’s truck. Before I could reprimand her again for the risk she took pulling a stunt like that, Finn gave her an admiring look and said, “That was impressive. Where did you learn moves like that?”

  Ramirez smiled grimly. “I’m a black belt in martial arts. Comes in handy from time to time. Well, it’s been real. Thanks for having my back in there. I’ll see you guys around.”

  She started her engine and drove away, a small cloud of dust shooting up behind her.

  Finn whistled low under his breath. “Interesting woman. She was pretty quick with that knife back there … Do you think she has anger issues?”

  “Anger issues?” I sighed and moved to my car, ready for the day to be over. “No more than any woman who’s ever lived. She was right, Finn. You men, all of you, you have no idea. Guys like that are a dime a dozen, our whole lives.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  In life, Caleb Montgomery hadn’t been a man of religion; as such, his memorial service on Saturday morning was secular, and, not surprisingly, rather subdued and in keeping with my opinion that violent death rarely lends itself to anything but serious funerals. The people attending were quiet, their conversations hushed and held in small groups not larger than three or four. Most gripped mugs of coffee or tea, the hot beverages serving to ward off the chill of both City Hall, where the reception was held, and the topic at hand.

  Photographs of Caleb at various stages in his life were displayed on stands and in frames all over the lobby. I found it hard to see pictures of victims of violence in their younger days. As a boy, Caleb had a bright, wide smile that spoke of wonder and innocence, with no idea what his future held.

  I’d arrived at the same time as Bull and Julia. My grandparents were a handsome couple, her with her chic bob and high cheekbones, him with his thick white hair and commanding presence. They knew everyone at the service, or at least it seemed that way. Caleb Montgomery was of their generation, after all, and he and Bull had run in many of the same circles. And, as I found myself saying more and more these days, it was a small town. It was hard to tell how much Julia was actually processing, though. As I watched her with Bull, I saw she did very little of the talking.

  When I’d arrived, Edith Montgomery and her brother Tom were perched on a low sofa in the foyer, occasionally standing to receive a hug or words of condolence. After I gave them both my regards, I stepped away. A few minutes later, I watched as Tom weaved through the crowd to the elevator, his phone in his hand, a sickly expression on his face. Edith watched him go, worry in her eyes. I wondered where he was headed. In the basement, there were restrooms and an exit to the parking lot. And on the second level, another foyer, much like this one; more restrooms; a vending machine; and offices.

  Curious, I went to Edith. She shook her head at my concern and explained that Tom was weaning himself off the pain medication he’d been prescribed for his surgery, and it was causing him nausea. He needed the restroom and a few minutes of fresh air. Then an elderly couple joined us and I moved away, giving the trio space and privacy.

  As it was Saturday, the building was closed to the public, the service by invitation only. I found myself watching the guests, wondering if Caleb’s killer was among us. It would be insane if he were; insane, but not unusual. If the killer had done it for the sensationalism, for the attention, then h
e would likely be here, here or somewhere nearby.

  Maybe it was the man in the corner, the guy with the red tie who’d been staring at his phone for the last twenty minutes and not talking to a single person. Or perhaps the server, stationed behind the coffee and dessert table, who kept making eye contact with me, then quickly looking away.

  “These things always give me the creeps.” The voice came out of nowhere, speaking soft, low words directly into my right ear. I stepped back, regaining my personal space, then turned.

  Liv Ramirez lowered her voice even more. “Please tell me I’m not the only one?”

  “What, who’s bothered by memorial services?” I shrugged. “Actually, I think they’re kind of nice. Sad, of course, but lovely to see people gathered and paying their respects.”

  Ramirez laughed. “Paying their respects? That’s a good one. They’re doing nothing of the sort. They’re gossiping, and congratulating one another on not being the body in the box. Trust me, I’ve been here an hour and I’ve heard a lot of conversations in that time.”

  “Anything important?”

  She stared at me shrewdly. “Important to your investigation? No, no, I don’t think so. It’s mostly petty gossip along the theme of what it must be like to be burned alive. Or killed by a bomb. Et cetera. Old people with nothing better to do than sensationalize what was in all likelihood a mercifully quick death.”

  “Do you really believe that, that Caleb died quickly?”

  Ramirez shrugged. “It’s better than thinking the alternative, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose. How are you feeling after last night’s activities?”

  The fire investigator laughed. “You should have seen the looks on your faces when I pulled the knife. It was priceless. I’m fine. I’ve dealt with a lot worse. Those guys, they’re big and mean … but they’re also dumb. Put an alpha in front of them, even an alpha female like myself, and they usually fall in line. They want to be led; they don’t want to think for themselves too much.”

  “Still, it could have turned ugly. One of them could have pulled a gun. The bar was packed. It wouldn’t have been good.” I sipped my coffee, once again watching the crowd. “You’d be the idiot literally bringing a knife to a gunfight.”

  Ramirez laughed. “That’s why I like you, Gemma. You tell it like it is. I don’t know that I’ve ever been called an idiot this early in the morning.”

  After a moment, she turned serious. “It’s the one thing I don’t like about small towns like this, though. You all are a closed-off bunch to newcomers. And if it’s someone a little different? Someone ‘not from around these here parts’?” She whistled. “Then watch out. You should see the stares I get at the grocery store.”

  Before I could respond, my cell phone buzzed. It was Finn.

  “Excuse me, I’ve got to take this.” I stepped away from Ramirez and answered. “Monroe. I’m at Caleb’s service. What’s up?”

  “I’m at the First Pillar Bank and Trust. Get your ass down here, we’ve got a robbery with shots fired and a security guard, badly injured.”

  * * *

  By the time I arrived on the scene, the first responders had established a perimeter with yellow tape and traffic cones. I parked as an ambulance pulled away from the curb, lights flashing, sirens screaming. Inside my car, I threw on a dark blazer over the black funeral dress I wore and clipped my badge to the lapel. Crowds milled about in front of the shops on either side of the bank—a yoga studio to the north, a natural foods store to the south. Many of the bystanders had cell phones out and were recording the scene.

  Finn stood at the bank entrance, under a green-and-white-striped awning, fuming. “There’s got to be seventy-five people on the street at this very moment and no one saw a thing. Not a goddamn thing.”

  His estimate of the crowds felt right. It was obvious that a packed Saturday-morning yoga class was just letting out, and at the grocery store, ads in the front windows advertised rock-bottom sale prices on seasonal goods. It would have been crowded at both places.

  “Nothing? Not even the perp’s getaway?”

  Finn shook his head. “He fled on foot, the bank teller is sure of it. After that, things get fuzzy. He could have ducked into any one of these stores and exited the street through a back door. If he had a partner with a car, waiting, or even a parked car somewhere close by, he could have been on the highway in less than ten minutes.”

  “Maybe we’ll get lucky. Maybe someone saw something and will come forward.” We walked into the lobby, careful to avoid the small plastic flags that the crime scene techs were already laying down. The flags were like game pieces against the rose-colored marble floor, as though we’d stumbled into a life-size world-conquering board game. My heels clacked against the tiles, each step taking me farther into the belly of this new, fresh hell.

  I asked, “What do we know so far?”

  “The Saturday shift is minimal: two tellers, a manager, and an unarmed security guard, Michael Esposito. Four people in total. The perp timed it perfectly. He entered the building at one minute to noon, just after the manager and one of the tellers had left for their break. No customers. The man approached the front counter and demanded all of the cash in the till. When the teller, a sweet old broad named Dee Bullock, hesitated, he pulled the gun.”

  Finn paused, surveying the lobby, then pointed to an overturned stool in the corner, near the front entrance. “Esposito, the guard, was seated there, on the stool. As Bullock gathered the cash, the perp aimed the gun at Esposito and instructed him to lie facedown, on the ground. By this time, it’s about two minutes after noon and both Bullock and Esposito are following bank protocol for this sort of situation.”

  “Don’t resist, the money’s insured?”

  “Yes, exactly,” Finn said. “But then things go off script: according to Bullock, as the perp is exiting the bank, ten grand in hand, he stops, bends down, whispers something, then shoots Esposito in the back. Twice. I don’t know if he’s going to make it, Gem.”

  “But the guard wasn’t a threat…” I stared at the pool of blood congealing on the marble floor. The scarlet blood and pink tiles made me think, strangely, of Valentine’s Day.

  Bullet wounds. Bleeding hearts.

  Finn said, “You’re correct. Esposito was unarmed and did not put up a fight.”

  “Could the robbery be a cover-up? Maybe Esposito was the target all along and the money grab just a distraction, a way to get to the guard.”

  “We’ll look into it, of course. It’s a strange place to do something like that, though. Busy, public place like this…” Finn trailed off.

  “Bullock said the perp whispered something to Esposito. Do we know what?”

  “No idea. The paramedics whisked him away, unconscious, as I arrived. You think this is a strange case so far, just wait.” Finn pointed to an area behind the overturned stool. “Check it out.”

  I walked over and looked down at the object that lay there. It was still and silent and deadly: a long-barreled pistol that vaguely resembled a semiautomatic Luger.

  Surprised again, I glanced at Finn. “The perp left the weapon?”

  “It’s not Esposito’s gun, that’s for sure.”

  We crouched by the gun, careful not to touch anything.

  “Why on earth would he leave the gun? Look, see that writing on the rear of the receiver? Does it look like a series of Japanese characters to you? Serial number, perhaps?”

  Finn agreed. “Ballistics should be able to tell us what the symbols mean.”

  I summoned a nearby officer, a burly sour-faced man with hands the size of ham hocks. The officer bagged the gun and added it to a box of other evidence already collected. The pistol was now part of the crime scene, and would be examined for fingerprints and other trace evidence. Finally, it would make its way to ballistics, where an expert would examine the firearm and ammunition, if any remained in the weapon.

  Before he left us, the officer stared down at the blood and shook his
head. “I play softball with Esposito. I hope he makes it. I heard the bastard who shot him was too much of a coward to show his face. That right?”

  Finn nodded. “He wore a mask.”

  The officer leaned over as if to spit, then thought better of it. This was a crime scene, after all. “Shoot. Well, I’ll get this evidence over to forensics right quick. Hope you catch the son of a bitch soon.”

  Finn and I made our way to the far wall of the bank, where a long service counter held three teller stations. I asked, “A mask? Like a Halloween mask?”

  “Not exactly. It was a gas mask. Bullock said it looked like something out of a history museum. You know the kind? With the large, dark bug eyes and a long snout. It sounds almost worse than a Halloween mask, in my opinion. A little too close to reality.”

  A Japanese pistol and a gas mask … like something out of a movie … I tried to connect the dots but came up empty, though something niggled at the back of my mind, something I’d seen or heard.

  I realized we hadn’t talked about the bank teller yet. “Any chance Bullock was a part of this?”

  Finn snorted. “Doubtful. That’s her in the photo right there, holding a jar of her three-time prize-winning apple butter. Don’t look at me that way, I heard all about it before she, too, was whisked away by the paramedics. Something about her heart, palpitations maybe.”

  I went to the framed photograph on the wall and held back a giggle. It was hard to imagine Dee Bullock orchestrating or aiding an operation such as this one. The frame read “Employee of the Month,” and the woman in the portrait must have been nearly eighty years old. She smiled beatifically at the camera, her white curls tight against her scalp, her large round eyeglasses last popular in the 1980s.

  In her hand was a jar, and in her lap an enormous cat snoozed.

  Finn said, “Bullock’s been with the bank for thirty-two years. She has eighteen grandchildren and runs a nonprofit out of her house. Rescue cats.”